


I Will Guard You In Your Weakness

by Archer973



Series: Build The Castle On Our Passions [1]
Category: Revolution (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-26
Updated: 2019-06-26
Packaged: 2020-05-20 07:32:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19372123
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Archer973/pseuds/Archer973
Summary: While Bass is recovering from the drugs that helped him fake his death, Charlie decides to repay the debt she owes him and watch over him as he recovers. But weakness isn't the only side effect of the drugs and soon Charlie has to come to terms with certain truths about the man she is watching over.





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> So, I know I'm about 20 years late to this fandom, but I binged the whole show in about two days and of course I immediately fell in love with Bass and Charlie. This is my first time writing them and I tried to both keep them in character and give voice to the undercurrents that I think everyone can agree were there. I hope you all enjoy, and I would love if you dropped me a review and let me know how I did!

Charlie couldn't help but smile slightly as Monroe grinned sappily up at Miles, the drugs her mother had given him pulling away the hardened General she had come to know and revealing the man underneath.

“You missed me. You're my best friend.”

Charlie ducked her, fighting to hide her grin as she watched her uncle's ears turn red at the unabashed sincerity and _love_ in Monroe's voice. Though, as Charlie looked at him now, it was hard to think of him as Monroe, the man she had hated for so long. Laying there prone beneath a thin sheet, his blue eyes soft and his voice warm and happy as he beamed up at Miles, Charlie couldn't help but see Bass. This was the man who had grown up with Miles, who had fought by his side longer than she had even been alive, who had adored Miles and called him his brother. And she knew, watching the way Miles leaned towards the bed, the heaviness she hadn't even realized was there gone from his shoulders, that her uncle could see it too.

“Why did you do it?” she asked, turning and looking at her mother, her mother who had been quite happy to put a bullet in Monroe as soon as she saw him.

“Because we needed him,” Rachel replied, looking up at Charlie with a blank, empty expression that gave no indication that she was even really registering that it was her daughter she was looking at and not some machine Charlie had no understanding of. “Because you asked me to.”

She had. She had asked her mother to save Monroe. She had told Rachel about how he had saved her life, though not what he had saved her from, not about the torture that would have occurred before her death. She had asked for that debt between them.

But she had asked for other reasons. She had asked for the way Monroe had come back for her, to show her the bounty on her mother. She had asked because he didn't kill the bounty hunter when she told him not to, when she was repaying her own debt. She had asked for the canteen he had thrown her, for the way he had assured her that he had been a perfect gentleman, for the way he had trusted her to cover him and Miles as they went for the gun-wielding Patriots, for the way he had silently asked confirmation that she was alright standing guard over their prisoner and the way he had accepted without a doubt her answer. She had asked for the pain in Miles' eyes when he had looked at the jail cell Monroe was locked in. And she had asked for her own pain, surprising and sharp when she had seen him chained like an animal in that cage.

And maybe Rachel had seen that in her eyes when she had told her that Monroe had saved her life. But Charlie had a hard time believing that the woman who had walked away as Charlie had begged her for Nora's life, who had told Charlie she would never see her again after Charlie had just lost the baby brother she had spent her whole life protecting, and who had, all those years ago, walked away as Charlie screamed and begged for her to come back, would really have chosen this moment to care about what her daughter asked of her.

The sound of a distant explosion yanked Charlie from her thoughts. Miles and Rachel were looking towards Willoughby and Charlie could see the plume of smoke rising up from the center of town. Rachel immediately grabbed her bag, heading for the door, but Miles hesitated, looking from Monroe, who was still stretched prone on the bed, his eyes hazy and unfocused, to Rachel, and back again.

“Miles.” Miles looked at Charlie, his torn loyalties carving deep lines of worry and indecision into his face. “Go. I'll stay here and look after Monroe.”

“You sure?” Miles asked, glancing back Monroe, the protectiveness he seemed to specially reserve for Charlie creeping minutely back into his eyes.

“We spent two weeks on the road together, Miles,” Charlie replied, rolling her eyes, though secretly she never got tired of Miles' rough affection. “I spent an entire day drugged out of my mind with him watching over me. Now it's my turn to return the favor. Go. Find out what's happening in Willoughby. I'll make sure this moron doesn't choke to death on his own spit, then come back in once it's dark.”

“Alright,” Miles agreed, smiling slightly at Charlie's irreverent tone. Adjusting his swordbelt, Miles walked quickly towards the door. Shaking her head, Charlie turned and regarded her slightly comatose companion.

“Kid.” Charlie looked over her shoulder. Miles was standing in the doorway, a small, wry smile on his face. “Thanks.”

Charlie didn't say anything, just smiled softly back and nodded, recognizing everything that Miles wouldn't, or couldn't, say. Miles took one more look at Monroe, then turned and strode quickly after Rachel.

Sighing, Charlie turned and regarded Monroe, hands on her hips. His eyes were closed now, though whether in sleep or unconsciousness, Charlie didn't know. Looking around, she spied the bottle of water her mother had brought and remember a smooth, calm voice telling her to drink and flush the drugs out of her system. Picking the bottle up, Charlie walked purposefully over to the bed. Monroe's eyes were still closed, his breathing shallow, though Charlie could see the vein on the side of his neck pulsing fiercely.

“Monroe,” she called and, when he didn't stir, slightly louder, “Monroe!”

“Charlie?” Monroe' voice was thick and confused. He opened his eyes, but he seemed to be having trouble focusing on her, blinking rapidly. “Wha – ? I thought... everyone left. The explosion...”

“Miles and my mom went to check it out,” Charlie explained, twisting the lid off the bottle of water and offering it to Monroe. “C'mon, you need to flush the drugs outta your system.” Monroe looked at her for a moment, then at the water. Charlie wondered if he was hearing the echo of his own words, spoken to her by that fire as the rain poured down around them and Charlie tried to struggle to her feet. But Monroe made no attempt to stand, to get away from her. Instead he moved weakly, trying to reach for the water, but the sheet was over his arm and he quickly became tangled.

Setting the water down on the nightstand, Charlie deftly folded the sheet back, laying bare Monroe's lean, scarred torso. Devoid of dirt, his skin was a warm tan that spoke of both time in the sun and genetics. The life of violence he had lived was written in the scars marking that warm skin, and Charlie had a moment of wanting to ask him about them. But instead she picked up the water and offered it once more to him. Monroe was looking at her, almost surprised. Charlie shook the bottle slightly, reminding him of its presence. Monroe looked at her a moment longer, then reached up and grasped the bottle.

Or at least, he attempted to. His arm started shaking as soon as it left the mattress and he couldn't force his fingers to close on the smooth plastic. Eyebrows furrowing, he tried again, biting his lip so hard Charlie feared he was going to draw blood as he tried to force his body to do as he commanded.

“Monroe, stop,” Charlie finally said after the fourth try. “Just... just let me help, alright?” Monroe looked up at her for a moment, then slowly nodded, letting his arm fall back to the mattress, where it lay twitching as the muscles violently protested his abuse. Telling herself firmly that this was no different then the hundreds of other times she had given wounded men water, Charlie sat down on the mattress beside Monroe. He stiffened, eyeing her warily. Ignoring him, Charlie reach forward and gently slid her hand behind his head.

His hair was surprisingly soft to the touch and for a moment Charlie swore she felt Monroe tremble against her. Repeatedly telling herself that she had done this plenty of times before and that there was nothing different about this time, Charlie gently lifted Monroe's head up, bringing the bottle down so that the rim rested against his dry, cracked lips. Monroe was watching her like he expected at any moment for her to shove a knife into his eye and he didn't even seem to register the bottle.

“Monroe, drink,” Charlie ordered, glaring down at him, though there was no heat in her eyes. “Or else I'll let you just lay here and dying of dehydration.” Monroe's lips twitched in what almost could have been a smile and he let her feed him small sips of water, though he never took his eyes away from her face. Charlie ignored him, concentrating on making sure he didn't suffocate or end up wearing more of the water than he drank. Finally he nodded, indicating he was done. Putting the bottle back on the nightstand, Charlie lowered his head back down onto the pillow and slid her hand away.

“Thank you, Charlie,” Monroe murmured, that same honest sincerity that had made Miles so embarrassed turning his voice warm and grateful.

“Well, it would have been a waste of saving your life just to have you give yourself an aneurysm trying to reach for a bottle of water,” Charlie replied, smiling slightly. It was hard to remember to be standoffish when his face was so open and soft, when he was looking at her with eyes that she realized were a rather pretty shade of blue, when his body was warm and solid against her hip. Monroe smiled at her, but his eyes were serious.

“Why did you do it?” he asked quietly.

“Do what?” Charlie asked, though she knew exactly what he was talking about, and he knew it too.

“Why did you ask Rachel to save my life?”

Charlie opened her mouth, about to tell him what she had told her mother: he had saved her life. Or maybe what Rachel had said: they needed him to fight the Patriots. Or what Miles had said: they needed him to be the monster, so that Miles wouldn't have to be. And all of these were true. But looking into Monroe's blue-grey eyes, the scars of his skin laid bare before her, Charlie couldn't quite speak those words.

“A sign of faith.” They were his words, the words he had spoken to her when she had asked _him_ why he had saved her, and his intake of breath told her that he knew it. Monroe looked at her, and Charlie looked back, strong and steady.

Faith. Faith in him to have their backs. Faith in him to fight for them, with them, in defense of them. Faith in him to be something other than the man who she had first met, the man who had fallen so far into the dark pit of his own mind. Charlie let all of this fill her eyes. She did not have the words to speak it, but he didn't need them. Monroe saw all she was not saying, and he nodded. He did not have the words to speak his gratitude, but she didn't need them. Charlie let Monroe bump his hand against her own, an action so small it could have been accidental, though they both knew it wasn't, then she folded the sheet back up over him and stood.

“Sleep, Monroe,” she said, looking down at him once more. “I'll stand guard.” Monroe looked at her for a moment, then nodded slightly, trusting her to watch his back as he closed his eyes, body exhausted from the drugs. Charlie watched him for a moment, realizing how different he looked with sleep smoothing away the tension he always carried. Then she moved to the chair by the window, settling down to guard the sleep of the man she had once tried to kill.


	2. Chapter Two

Monroe had only been asleep for about an hour when the muttering started. Charlie, still seated by the window that looked out towards Willoughby, had thought at first he was awake and had stood, ready to check on him. But Monroe's eyes were still closed and darting wildly from side to side beneath his eyelids. As Charlie drew closer, his body began to twitch, head jerking back and forth.

“No... no... I didn't... no please... don't... don't hurt them... please...”

Monroe's voice was low and raw, and Charlie recognized a nightmare when she saw one. Moving to the side of the bed, she made sure she was out of arm's reach and called softly, “Monroe... Monroe, wake up. It's just a dream. Monroe!”

“No, don't, please don't... Miles... please no, don't hurt him!” Monroe's voice had risen in volume and he began to thrash violently, making Charlie take a step back, lest she get hit by a flailing limb. The pain in Monroe's voice as he called her uncle's name made Charlie's heart clench in sympathy and she tried again. “Monroe! Monroe, wake up!” But still Monroe slept, trapped inside his own head as his fears and demons came out to torment him. Charlie bit her lip. Once she would have been glad. Once she would have enjoyed his pain. But there was no victory in listening to his broken voice, no retribution in the pain of his whimpers. And Charlie was not the girl looking for revenge anymore.

“Bass...” The name slipped out almost without her meaning to. But it was Bass in front of her right now, Miles' Bass, the man from before the Republic. “Bass, it's alright. It's alright, Bass, you're dreaming.”

“Charlie?”

His eyes were still closed, but his violent movements had slowed. Charlie tried to ignore the way her heart squeezed when he said her name, so unsure and lost. Ignoring everything else, Charlie just concentrated on keeping her voice even and calm, a line for him to follow out of his nightmare.

“I'm here, Bass. Wake up, I'm right here.” Bass went still, and for a moment Charlie thought she had brought him out of it. Then his face contorted in rage and he snarled, “Leave her alone, you bastard!”

Suddenly Bass exploded up off the bed, his eyes open and full of hot, wild anger. Charlie took a step back, hand going for her knife out of sheer reflex, but dream adrenaline was no match for the sedatives still in his blood and when Bass' feet hit the floor, his legs buckled, sending him toppling forwards straight into Charlie.

It was rather like being hit by a falling tree. Bass lived and died by his physical abilities and every inch of him was sculpted with that knowledge, thick, hard muscle layered over bone and sharp angles. Charlie managed to stop them from both falling to the ground in a tangled heap, but only barely, and she was forced to sink to the ground with her arms around Bass' chest, turning a fall into a controlled descent by sheer muscle and force of will.

“Charlie...” He breathed her name, his head pressed against hers, voice partially muffled by her hair. “Charlie... are you alright?”

“No thanks to you,” Charlie replied, trying to lean back away from him, but Bass' arms were wrapped around her shoulders and back as in his sleep-muddled state he clung to her. “How the hell are you so fucking _heavy_?”

“I...” Bass pulled away slightly, his blue eyes hazy with confusion, and looked at her from a distance that made Charlie suddenly realize exactly what he was, and was not, wearing. “He was... He was hurting you. I heard you say my name, and then he _hurt_ you.” The anger was back in his voice and his eyes blazed like blue fire, making Charlie's breath catch in her chest for a moment at the strange, savage beauty of him just then, lean and scarred and feral in his anger, an anger she did not see on his face while he was fighting, but that she saw now as his arms tightened around her, as if he was trying to guard her from whatever he had seen in his nightmare.

“Bass... Bass, it was just a dream,” Charlie told him, forcing her voice to be calm, to not let the sudden spike in her heart rate bleed through into her words. “A nightmare. The drugs... they were messing with your head. I tried to wake you up. That's why you heard my voice.” Bass looked at her again, some of the anger bleeding out of his eyes, though his arms did not loosen their hold on her.

“Nightmares don't need drugs to find me,” he said quietly, and Charlie couldn't quite bring herself to look away from those stormy blue eyes. “I have done many terrible things, Charlie. I have seen things that I wish had driven me mad, so I didn't have to keep reliving them. But there is only one person I truly fear. Do you want to know who that is, Charlie? Do you want to know who was hurting you? Who was torturing you? Who was putting bullet after bullet in your head, killing you over and over and over again?” Charlie couldn't answer, didn't need to answer. She knew. Somehow, she knew.

“Me. That's what haunts me, Charlotte. I close my eyes and I watch myself disembowel Miles, or my son, or _you_.” His voice was almost a caress, his eyes boring into hers, agony turned beautiful in the blue depths. His arms were wrapped tight around her and all Charlie could feel was the hard, warm planes of his body as he half pinned her, half held her.

“Are you afraid of me, Charlie?”

“No.”

The response was instantaneous, sure and confident. Bass looked at her for a moment, then smiled, a fierce baring of teeth that matched the heat blooming in his eyes.

“No, you never have been, have you? Not even in Philadelphia, when I ordered Rachel choose which one of her children was going to die. Oh the way you looked, Charlie, fierce as an Amazon as you stood between your brother and the gun. I admired you, you know. I've always admired you, respected you. Out of all of the Mathesons that have tried to kill me, you're the only one that's managed to pull the trigger. How could I not admire you for that? I can feel your heart pounding in your chest, and yet I know it's not from fear. You've never feared me. Not when you woke up tied across from me in that swimming pool. Not when I escaped, not when I came back to you. Not when you walked away, daring me to shoot you. Not even in Pottsboro. You were drugged, _helpless_ , yet still fighting. I saw the broken arm, the smashed faces. I saw them and then I saw red. It was so _easy_ to kill them, to cut them open, knowing what they were going to do to you. You, who has never been afraid of the monster in front of you. You, who watched me slaughter those men without hesitation. You, who when I came to stand in front of you, blood wet on my swords and the thrill of killing still in my heart, looked at me with _trust_. You should have been terrified. I was the monster who had killed half your family. You should not have looked at me with _trust_ , you should not have let your eyes fall closed, let the drugs take you. How could you trust me, with all the things I had done? How could you trust me with your complete helplessness? Because Miles was right, he does know me, he knows my type, he knows what women I like, tall and blonde and beautiful, with fire in their eyes and an ass that –”

Charlie put her hand over Bass' mouth, stifling whatever he was going to say next.

“It is imperative to your health that you do not finish that sentence,” she told him firmly, though  there was no actual anger in her voice.“You are rambling, Bass. I'm pretty sure one of the side effects of the drugs is an inability to put a filter on anything you say. Now, we need to get you up and back into the bed so you can sleep more of it off.”

“I don't know, I kind of like it down here,” Bass said once Charlie took her hand away, grinning impishly. Charlie rolled her eyes. Apparently rapid mood swings was another side effect. Though, she thought to herself, it was actually probably just Bass being Bass.

“You're not wearing any pants, Bass,” Charlie snapped, exasperated. Bass looked at her in confusion, then looked down.

“Oh.”

Without the cover of the sheet, Bass was as bare as the day he was born. Charlie had been very firmly telling herself the whole time that it didn't matter, that she had seen plenty of men naked, from wounded soldiers to one-night stands. But this was different. This was Sebastian Monroe. Former general of the Republic. Miles' best friend. Their best asset against the Patriots.

And one of the most annoyingly attractive and well-built men Charlie had ever seen.

“Do you think you can stand?” Charlie asked, refusing to acknowledge any of the insidious things her traitorous mind was whispering to her. Bass shifted, eyebrows furrowing in concentration as he slowly forced his legs out of their fall-induced sprawl and back under him, testing his muscles and grimacing as they shook.

“I... I think I'll need some help.” The words were admitted quietly, and Charlie felt her heart squeeze. She knew how hard that was for him to say. Knew because they were hard for _her_ to say, to admit when she was weak, when she needed others. So Charlie simply nodded, shifting so that her feet were under her and Bass' arm was wrapped securely around her shoulder.

“On three,” she told him, making sure her arm was secure around his back and waiting for his nod. “One, two, _three_.”

Between the two of them, it was easier than Charlie had expected. Bass was leaning heavily on her, but his legs seemed to be holding, at least for the moment. Huffing slightly (the man was _not_ light), Charlie guided him slowly back to the bed, grateful that they only had a couple of feet to go. She could feel Bass' heart pounding against her arm, but she put it down to the strain of fighting through the sedatives.

Swearing under her breath, Charlie maneuvered them so that Bass could fall onto the bed, which he did gratefully. He lay there for a moment sprawled across the white sheets, all of that long, tan body on display. Charlie forced herself to ignore the warm tingle in her spine at the sight of him, nude and glorious. Grabbing first one ankle then the other, Charlie threw his legs rather unceremonious onto the bed and quickly covered him with the sheet.

“Worried I'll get cold?” Bass' voice was innocent, but Charlie could hear the teasing lilt and when she turned to glare at him, he was smirking.

“Nursing 101,” she replied tartly, putting her hands on her hips and raising an eyebrow at him. “The _elderly_ are more prone to drafts.” Bass let out a sharp bark of laughter, his eyes shining.

“Ouch, a crack at my age. Well, I don't think you have to worry about any drafts, Charlotte,” he reassured her, grinning in a way that made him suddenly look ten years younger (not that he actually looked that old to begin with, Charlie's mind added unhelpfully). “Seeing as you're looking a little _flushed_.”

“Must be from having to haul your sorry ass up off the floor,” Charlie shot back. “Seriously, how are you that fucking heavy when you're skinny as a rail?”

“Muscle weighs more than fat, sweetheart,” he replied smugly, smirking at her and moving his arms slightly, making the aforementioned muscles in his arms and chest shift and flex in a tantalizing way.

“Well, you certainly have plenty of that.” The words slipped unbidden out of Charlie's mouth and she immediately snapped her jaw shut, realizing what she had just said. Bass grinned in triumph, the winner of a game Charlie hadn't even realized they had been playing.

But he didn't press his advantage. Instead he shifted, pushing himself more upright on the bed, and asked, “Could you pass me the water?”

Charlie nodded wordlessly, grateful for an excuse to look away from him. She picked up the half-empty bottle of water and sat down on the edge of the bed, offering it to him. Bass took it, hand still shaking but fingers strong enough to grip the bottle this time. He took a small sip, then put the water on the nightstand. Looking at Charlie, he slowly reached out and touched the back of her hand.

“Charlie...” The tone in his voice sent a spike of heat up Charlie's spine, heat that she saw reflected in the beautiful blue eyes that were looking at her so intently. “I'm going to do something now so that you can blame it on the drugs, alright?”

“Wha – ?” But before she could finish her question, Bass leaned forward and kissed her.

She should have been surprised. She should have been pissed. She should have pulled away and punched him square in that face. But she didn't. She wasn't. As Bass pressed his lips softly against her own, Charlie could think of nothing else except the warmth of his skin against hers, the way her heart jumped and trilled and danced in her chest. She felt Bass' hand slide from her hand up her arm and around her neck to bury itself in her hair.

What she had expected to turn hot and passionate, dancing the way they always did between blood and death, stayed soft. Bass didn't press. He didn't drag her to him or use the hand in her hair to deepen the kiss. He just kissed her, holding her almost tenderly with the hand wrapped through her hair.

Then, just as Charlie began to lean into him, Bass pulled away. Charlie followed him almost unconsciously, chasing the kiss, then realized what she was doing and pulled back sharply. Bass was looking at her with eyes so open and honest that Charlie felt like she was seeing him naked once again.

“Blame it on the drugs, Charlie,” he murmured, his hand still buried in her hair, eyes raw with his want and a warmth that had nothing to do with the physical, a warmth that made Charlie's heart jump into her throat. “Blame it on the drugs so you don't have to feel guilty. Blame it on the drugs so you don't have to think about what it means. Blame it on the drugs – ”

“So I don't have to stick a knife into your junk?” Charlie offered, smiling slightly. Bass let out a huff of laughter, grinning slightly.

“Yeah, definitely so you don't have to do that,” he replied lightly, making Charlie laugh in turn. For a moment they just looked at each other, everything unspoken hanging in the air between them. Then, slowly, Bass leaned forward and pressed their foreheads together, hand tightening minutely in her hair.

Taking a deep breath, Charlie let herself lean into him, this infuriating man who she had wanted to both kill and save, who should be the last person she would let close to her, but who she trusted with her life.

And she did trust him, she realized. Not to toe the line or listen to orders, or even to stay by their side in this fight. But she trusted him to never kill her. Even if they ended up on opposite sides of a battlefield, she trusted Sebastian Monroe not to take the shot. He might betray them, might fall back into being the General, might drown the world in fire and blood for the what the Patriots had done, might even leave her to die, but _he_ would not be the one to pull the trigger.

The thought shouldn't be comforting. But leaning into him, feeling his hand heavy on the back of her head, listening to his breathing, Charlie felt a kind of peace come over her. They were all going to die, either in this war or the next one. But she would not die by this man's hand. And there, in that room, where he had spilled so many words out for her to hear, so many thoughts she knew he had kept secret for so long, Charlie Matheson decided that Sebastian Monroe was not going to die by her hand either.

Decision made, Charlie opened her eyes and pulled away slightly, though she immediately missed the warmth of him. Bass opened his eyes and looked at her, passive in a way she so rarely saw, waiting for her to take the lead and tell him where they were headed next.

“You need to get some sleep, Bass,” Charlie told him gently. Bass looked at her for a moment, then smiled slightly. Charlie was almost afraid of what he could see in her eyes, but he didn't say anything, just nodded and leaned back, letting his hand trail out of her hair and across her cheek as he did so. Charlie's heart jumped at the warm brush of his fingers and she had a moment of wanting to catch hold of his hand and press it to her cheek. But the moment passed and she stood, pulling the sheet up over Bass' shoulders as he settled into the bed, eyes already beginning to droop.

Looking down at him, Charlie allowed herself one last indulgence, brushing a stray curl away from his face. Bass looked at her and Charlie could feel the unspoken words hovering between them. But neither she nor Bass really needed words. So she just gave him a small smile and walked back over to her seat by the window, taking up the position of guard once more. And the last thing that Sebastian Monroe saw before he fell asleep was Charlie, her bow in her lap, fierce and beautiful as the warriors he had named her, ready to guard him as he slept, just as he had done for her on a dark and rainy night not so long ago.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I may write more one-shots like this, kinda a Charloe season 2 expansion, extra scenes that dovetail the ones we already had in the show (mostly more kiss and... stuff). If I do, I'll add them to this as part of the series, since I have no interest in rehashing the show, so I'll just diverge from canon where I want to, because I can. Again, I would love if y'all dropped me a line and let me know what you thought! Cheers everyone!


End file.
